


show, don't tell

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Daydreaming, F/M, Ficandchips, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: (He thinks the dress will drape nicely over his wrists, spilling between his fingers when he hitches it up over her thighs.)





	show, don't tell

She steps out of their en suite, filling his vision with gold-flashing hair and smoky eyes and a shy grin, and maybe there is something to be said for this single human heart after all; his entire nervous system grinds to a halt at just the sight of her in the curve-hugging dress, looking at him like that, with her patented blend of warmth and soft mischief, and it is certainly the kindest way that his body has ever betrayed him.

(It isn’t a question of  _if_  he will take that dress off her; it is only a question of  _when_.)

It can be overwhelming at times, the way this new body constantly cries out for things, needy in its nascence for food, water, warmth, rest, touch, and this is no exception; one look at her and his lips are instantly parched, his hands suddenly starved.

“Well? What do you think?” Rose asks.

The Doctor’s eyes travel a long and lazy journey along the plains of her, cataloging the curve of her hips, the swells of her breasts, the slope of her neck. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t make it any less worthy of appreciation; he’ll still indulge in the scenic route when he can, especially when permission has been so graciously (explicitly) granted.

(He thinks the dress will drape nicely over his wrists, spilling between his fingers when he hitches it up over her thighs.)

At the gala, she’s positively radiant–of course she is, she’s rarely anything else–and he’s content to hang back, to snatch nibbles off passing trays and count the number of priceless artifacts lining the walls and idly ponder the mechanics of the Teichmuller Theory.

(He imagines drawing his thumbs along the valley where her legs end and her knickers begin, the lace rough against his fingertips, her skin delightfully warm and silky beneath.)

Rose turns away to talk to someone–a politician or a dignitary, someone very important, no doubt, only the Doctor can’t be bothered to remember his name–and the Doctor realizes that her dress is very much backless, held up only by straps that frame her shoulderblades and cupid’s bow very prettily. The Doctor feigns interest in whatever babble falls out of the politician’s mouth as he silently counts the gentle ridges of Rose’s spine.

(Her back will arch, her body straining for his touch, but he’ll take a moment for himself first, basking in the view of her writhing beneath him on the bed, flushed cheeks and chest, hair spread on the pillows, well-kissed lips pursing together with want.)

Dinner, then, and dessert after, and fine wine buzzes pleasantly in his head. One more chocolate-covered strawberry sits on his plate, a lone survivor amidst the debris of jam-smears and macaroon-crumbs; the Doctor has every intention of eating it, slowly, savoring the burst of tart and sweet on his tongue, but Rose’s nimble fingers pluck it out from under him, feeding shining-red fruit into a redder mouth.

(She won’t beg; he likes that about her.)

There is a dance, if you could call it such a thing, strings of couples with hands placed on each other in safe places, swaying to the notes played by a bored jazz quartet far more talented than this bland watered-down stuff requires. The Doctor saunters over and slips them a handful of tenners in exchange for some Glenn Miller. Rose laughs at the sound of the opening score, draping her arms lazily around the Doctor’s neck.

(Impatient, Rose will wrap her hands around his shirt collar, pulling him down for a kiss, pressing the length of her body along his until he can feel every inch of her, hot and humming with need.)

She can waltz, now–her transition to Vitex heiress has come at a price, a ransom of etiquette classes and high-society scrutiny, galas and press conferences, magazine photoshoots and paparazzi hiding in the trees, product endorsements and attempted kidnappings; waltz, tango, box step, foxtrot–but even if you can take the girl out of the Estate, you can’t take the Estate out of the girl, and sometimes she likes it that way. She forgoes anything fancy in favor of resting against the Doctor while her hips sway to the beat, her fingers running idly through the short hairs on the back of his neck, her face tilted so close he can feel every puff of her breath, every bat of her eyelashes against his throat. They’re soft, feathery, like butterfly-wings. He rests his hands at the small of her back and turns his face into her hair, just breathing her in.

(She’ll smell of sweat, now, and sex, salty-tang permeating the air and mixing with the fruity scent of her perfume. It will be a heady combination, made all the more potent when his tongue darts out to taste her, laving over the pulse-point beneath her ear. Ethyl alcohol, fixatives, essential oils, and her racing heart bleats it all out like a beacon. He’ll wish she wouldn’t use synthetic fragrance–she hardly wears any, but it’s still overwhelming for senses as fresh-peeled as his, and he much prefers the smell of  _just Rose_  anyway–but he won’t say anything, choosing instead to pull down the neckline of her gown to palm one of the nipples that has been so sharply begging for his touch.)

Rose shivers in his arms.

“Cold?” the Doctor asks, concerned.

“Nah,” Rose replies. Then, a few seconds later, “Well, just a little bit.”

The Doctor steps back just long enough to unbutton his tuxedo jacket, wrapping it around Rose’s shoulders. She snuggles into the jacket with a smile.

“Better?” asks the Doctor.

Rose nods, stepping back into the circle of his arms. “Much.”

( _Feverish_  is the word that will come to mind as he insinuates one leg between hers, his thigh brushing against her through increasingly wet knickers. She’ll grind down on him for relief, the heat and the wet of her apparent even through his trousers. He could get her off just like this, he’ll think; he’s done it before, hands on her breasts and teeth on her throat while she ruts against his thigh, her lithe leg muscles clenching desperately around him, but he wants to do things properly this time, he wants to  _feel_  her, his every quark of every atom of every cell each sending  _Rose, Rose, Rose_ thundering through his veins _._  Flimsy lace knickers will tear like tissue paper and he’ll slide one hand down her bum, fingers exploring until they find where she’s slickest and her mouth falls open in a gasp.)

Guests are filtering out now, meandering slowly toward the great mahogany doors in sets of threes and fours. Lulls in conversation grow deeper and closer between; soon the clock will chime and all the carriages will turn back into pumpkins, but in these last few moments, everyone wants to cling to the enchantment just a little bit longer, putting off the loss of the glass slipper and the return to real life for just a moment more. Rose doesn’t cling to anything but the Doctor’s hand, her fingers entwined snugly around his.

(He thinks of how his abdominal muscles will twitch when her fingers brush against them on their way to his trouser-clasp, her nails scratching lightly through wiry hair as her clever little hand insinuates itself beneath his boxers, wrapping around his cock. He’ll shudder when she starts to stroke, slow and firm along the hard length of him, pleasure curling and unfurling deep in his belly.

“How long have you been like this?” she’ll ask.

He’ll reply with a bite to her neck and his thumb brushing her clit.)

They reach the car and she curls into his side in the backseat, absentmindedly scratching his knee through his trousers. He wraps one arm around her shoulders and tries not to notice when one strap slips, surrendering to gravity’s inexorable pull.

(Soon his restraint will snap, pulled thin and tight and resonant like a violin-string at its breaking point, but first, he’ll kiss a trail down to her breasts, taking one nipple in his mouth and teasing it tender with his teeth. Rose will cry out beneath him, hand stalling on his cock as he laves her breast and she fucks his fingers. He’ll think of how he would like her to fuck his mouth, would like to taste between her legs, suck on her clit the way he’s teasing her nipple until she floods his tongue with ecstasy, and he’ll plan to do just that, releasing her breast with a wet  _pop_  and licking his way down her stomach, dragging her dress down as he goes.

“Wait,” she’ll say breathlessly, and he’ll stop, propping himself on his elbows, a question waiting in his eyes and hovering on his lips.)

It is not a short car ride and before too long Rose is dozing off on his shoulder, the Doctor thinks, but that’s all right; it’s been a long week, full of paperwork and Cirrasian border disputes and late-night stakeouts and tending to the baby TARDIS at odd hours. His body wants sex like a desert wants rain but he imagines Rose feels the same way about sleep right about now. He wills his hormones to calm and presses a kiss to the side of Rose’s head and thinks of curling up around her in their bed, of sleeping tonight and whispering his fantasies to her tomorrow, if he can muster the courage.

Then she turns her head, pressing a humid kiss to his throat, and his Adam’s apple jumps.

(Tongue trapped between her teeth in a shy grin, Rose will reach for the hem of her gown. “S’a nice dress,” she’ll say sheepishly. “Sort of hate for anything to happen to it.”

“Naturally,” the Doctor will reply with a grin of his own, relief settling in his bones; he hasn’t said or done anything wrong, she still wants this, still wants him, isn’t going to disappear. Her dress, however, is a different story, and soon will find itself pulled over Rose’s head and slung to a far corner of the room, despite anything its owner might have said to the contrary. (The Doctor will silently congratulate himself on a plan well-followed-through.) That will leave Rose almost completely, beautifully bare, standing between his legs clad only in the thigh-high stockings she likes to wear when she’s feeling sexy. Someone, the Doctor will think, was hoping for this little encounter–planning on it, even–and the notion will make his blood thrill.)

The car drops them off at home, and they wave goodbye to Jackie and Pete. Rose squeezes his hand.

(He’ll watch as she crawls back onto the bed, her motions long and sinuous, a cat lazily circling its prey; she’ll cast a glance over one shoulder and the Doctor will feel himself struck with the full smoldering force of her gaze.

“Doctor,” Rose will say, and  _fuck_ , but the way she rolls his name in her mouth will flush his cheeks with anticipation, “it isn’t polite to keep a lady waiting.”)

Rose heads straight for their bedroom, shedding pumps and jewelry and his jacket along the way, but the Doctor hangs back for just a moment, waiting until he hears the sound of the loo door before he reaches for the bottle of cheap Tesco’s vodka he knows Rose keeps hidden above the refrigerator in case of emergencies. The stuff tastes like death and burns even worse, but a shot is enough to settle the nerves he won’t admit to having.

He loves her like a tree loves the sun;  _overwhelming_  doesn’t even begin to cover it.

(He won’t want to say her name when he pushes inside her, won’t want to let anything embarrassing or sentimental slip free, nothing that could compromise him; he never wants to, but he knows she’ll always recognize it anyway, hear it in his bitten-back gasps and feel it in the way he clings to her, the moment he finally snaps and loses control. Rocking forward, one of his hands will grasp the headboard in front of them, hoping desperately for any sense of leverage or stability; the other hand will roam, first gripping her by the hip, pulling her arse into his pelvis so he can bury himself deep inside, relishing the way she grinds against him as her muscles clench slickly around his cock. Before too long he’ll realize his fingers are digging into her hip so tightly they’re sure to leave impressions behind, and his hand will travel up to a breast, neglected for some time now and instantly responsive to his touch, nipple swelling stiffly between his fingers. Rose will swear under her breath and turn her head for a kiss he’s all-too-happy to give, tongues twining wetly in time to the motions of their hips below. Eventually she’ll hit that swell and her kisses will stop, her lower lip too busy being bitten white by her teeth as she loses sight of everything but the impending break, and she’ll push back into him with furious abandon, panting sharply as his cock slides in and out of her. Her muscles will flutter around him and he’ll fall forward, his chest pressed along her back, knuckles straining against his skin as the headboard bangs against the wall hard enough to scratch the paint. He’ll press his face into her neck, whispering damp pleas into her skin–she never begs, but he does, and he won’t last much longer, and god, he can feel it tightening in his spine and she feels so fucking good and just, please, Rose, please,  _fuck_ –her muscles ripple around him and she’s moaning his name and thank god, thank fucking heaven, because he follows just seconds later, emptying into her with spasms hard enough to make him shout.

After, she’ll slip free and turn in his arms, pressing sleepy kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. The sweat will cool on their skin but he’ll just close his eyes, losing himself in her kisses, utterly forgetting himself as his thumb tenderly strokes her cheek.

He’s forgetting himself more and more these days; he finds he’s minding less and less.)

“So,” Rose says from her perch on their bed, “You were awfully quiet tonight. What were you thinking about?”

He shows her.


End file.
